Barefoot
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: A one-shot about Alfred, or America, and his life in a quiet, Southern town in the early twentieth century. "They say he's been here longer than the town," rumor has it. And despite warnings to stay quiet, somehow Alfred's status as a nation has escaped.


Whittling away on his porch, Alfred sat enjoying the sunset. The clouds, now dry of the rain they had dispelled an hour prior, were thinning out to reveal the hot orange sun. Alfred took one final slice at the once large chunk of wood and ended up with a thin pick. He popped it in his mouth and bit it hard, tucking away his knife in a pocket of his jeans. His sunburned feet rested on the ground without shoes. Locks of clean sandy hair nearly fell in his clear blue eyes. His face was dusty and freckled, but still with a quality of sweetness that was unmistakable.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," Alfred said cheerfully to a passing neighbor.

She stopped and looked up, tipping her sunhat away from her small face. "Hello, sir. Mighty fine day, isn't it?" She replied mildly. Alfred nodded, leaning back on his porch chair. She was off then, going along her business and toting a basket covered in a patchy blanket.

This young lady was a refined sort, nearing her twentieth birthday. She had just left her husband for some time to visit some of her friends. She raised her skirts when muddy, laughing children scrambled past. The children stopped when she gave them a mild look.

"Do you think it is polite to run past a lady and not apologize?"

"Nome." One of the children replied. There were three in all: an older boy and girl with a little sister gripping the backs of their shirts.

"We're awfully sorry, miss," the older girl said.

"And you should stop with these messy games," the woman said in a heavy voice, "You'll be a lady soon and this is awfully unladylike."

"Shoot, let kids be kids!"

The woman turned around and saw Alfred some lengths behind her. His hands were in his pockets and he stood straight. He couldn't have been any older than her, but the way he pensively chewed that stick could have been mistaken for a much older man. "Excuse me?" she said, her cheeks tinted crimson.

"Miss May, if I may call you that, these kids are no older than twelve. You shouldn't be too harsh on them. Now you three get along, this isn't a conversation for young ears." Alfred continued, patting the boy's shoulder. They thanked him in low voices and burst back into their game, racing through the dusty road and prickly grass.

"How did you know my name?" May said, holding herself straighter and keeping the basket tighter at her waist.

But Alfred had already turned to leave. He shrugged, "Guess I just heard it one day. Maybe you were walkin' with one of your friends and I overheard you."

May incredulously watched him creep back onto his porch and plop back down on his chair as if nothing happened. She sighed, her nostrils flaring, and turned away. Now, it wasn't in her nature to be mean and strict, but her upbringing decided that for her. In fact, she loved sweet bread and children laughing. But recently her mother had come to visit and reprimanded her ways.

Alfred knew that. He knew everything about everyone in the county. Rumors lurked around the town that he was older than the neighborhood itself.

Later that evening when the three children, who were all in the same family, asked their father who that man was, their father grinned.

"You know, he's a nice young man. Though I don't know how young he really is. In fact, I think that when I was your age he made the same comment about a mean old lady who was antagonizin' me." He said.

"Naw, you're just makin' that up!" the boy scowled, poking at his meal. "We ain't small enough for you to say that."

"Funny thing is I meant every word." The father replied in an undertone. When the boy would grow up and raise a family of his own, he would repeat those exact words.

The sun finished setting, leaving the night pitch-black and letting the stars shine through. Alfred stood up and disappeared inside. He clicked on a reading light and spent another hour reading the newspaper and then a novel. When his yellow light ceased piercing the darkness and he laid his head down on his pillow, Miss May began returning home.

She was led by one of her neighbors, a kindly fellow who refused to see May off on her own in the dark. "Why, you ain't safe, miss." He said as she protested. Reluctantly, she was forced to agree.

They passed Alfred's house and May bowed her head, her lips hardly moving; "Do you know anything about that man in the house over yonder?" She pointed in that direction.

The man shrugged, his muscles rippling. He was a man who spent all his daylight hours under strenuous labor. "Dunno, some say he's old as the town and older. His name's Alfred, I heard, Alfred Jones. Even my old grandma seemed to recall him. She said he was a right young man full of life and wisdom well beyond his years."

"Isn't it even a little bit strange?" May whispered. "He knew my name and talks to me as if he's known me my entire life."

"You mean he doesn't even call you 'miss' or 'ma'am'?"

"No, he's a real courteous fellow, one of them folks of good upbringing, but he's so casual!"

He decided to change the subject and May grudgingly accepted, as was habitual of her.

The town Alfred lived in was a quaint, dreamy southern place in the middle of the country. If a body wanted to go somewhere far they would have to have acquired a train ticket and an abundance of patience. But nobody wanted to leave anyway. It was too calm and safe for anyone to even consider stepping foot outside of its boundaries. Everything they needed was right there. A sheriff kept watch, though he grew sleepy on duty. There were fine schools and a good amount of children. Most just wanted to raise a respectable family and a respectable lifestyle without any disturbances and die quietly.

Alfred had moved there just as it was assigned the title of "town". His house was built well before then, and that was that. Alfred lived there most of the time, only vanishing when some urgent meeting or other came up. Sometimes he simply wanted something excited and then he would go up to Virginia and poke around there.

When the Spanish-American war came he also left. The townsfolk at the time assumed he was assigned soldier, just as the case remained with the Civil War.

In Alfred's room, besides the bed and table with a jug of water, there was nothing else of great importance but an armoire. In another room he had an assortment of rifles and helmets and uniforms. Once he showed a dying man, who was infatuated with the wars, the room. The man nearly died of joy. It did good for Alfred's heart and he felt that he really made a difference to that fellow.

The rifles were scarcely used. Even when a burglar snuck into Alfred's house in the dead of night, Alfred did not equip himself. He caught the man red-handed, spoke to him about his life and condition, and let him off scot-free. The man was hardly a man at all, he was seventeen. Things had turned sour back at home when he father decided to drink too much and beat him around the face. Upset and confused, the boy had felt a sudden desire to rob ignite in his chest.

Alfred explained to him what to do and that the boy could come if he ever needed something to be sorted out. The boy smiled, showing off a pair of dimples, and said he was happy at the offer. He did take it up when he was an actual man with a hefty mustache and a business ahead of him.

When he realized that Alfred had not aged a wink, his heart sunk, but not for any expected reasons. He felt a great sorrow at the possibility that Alfred aged slower than other folk. All those friends Alfred would acquire in the great big world and he would outlive them all. They would never see his corpse in a casket but he would see all theirs.

The man, Charles, inquired about it.

"Doesn't it sadden you?"

"At first it did," Alfred said. They sat in his living room. He wore plaid and held a handkerchief twisted into a rope in his right hand. Tea untouched sat at the table.

"What do you mean?" Charles asked, raising his eyebrows. His dimples were faintly visible. Talking to Alfred gave him a surprising amount of glee and pride. This feeling was no stranger. It came to everyone who ever even laid eyes on Alfred.

"Well, son, when I was growing up all the boys seemingly my age would shoot right up to the moon. I was still playing games in the gardens and tearing up flowers when they went off to college. My brother told me to stay out of their sight like a good boy. I did, but it made me awful sad. But I supposed he was right, he's much older than I am and last I saw, his age was catchin' up with him."

"But don't most people want to be like you?"

"Why? If anyone even mentioned a likin' to be like me I'll personally tell 'em a hundred and one reasons why that's a bad idea."

Charles laughed and so did Alfred.

Alfred untwisted the handkerchief and vainly attempted to flatten out the creases. He had a nasty habit of jittering his leg when it was crossed over his other, ankle-to-knee. Deciding that ironing out the fabric was futile, Alfred took off his spectacles and wiped them.

"So what are you? Can't you tell an old friend?" Charles said, curiosity eating him up.

"If I do you'll have to take an oath not to tell a soul." Alfred said.

"Well, I prom—"

"Ah-ah—no, you must swear it. Put your hand on your heart and raise your other one."

Charles obeyed, raising his hand. A thin scar crossed his palm from where an empty glass bottle was flung at him. He had it ever since he could remember. "I solemnly swear…" he repeated the ancient oath and looked expectantly at Alfred, who had gone dead serious, his jaw was set and a muscle under his left ear twitched.

"I'm a country. I'm the country you're living in right now. I was born and so was it, we're one in the same."

Charles raised his eyebrows.

"You don't have to believe me, Charles, but don't repeat a word of it to anyone."

"No, I was just wonderin'… Everyone says America is a fine woman, they say 'she' and 'her' when referring to it—you."

"They do that everyone, I suppose. There's probably a woman just like me runnin' around. In fact there is, but she's a wild one. She likes the big cities and the long horse rides. I like laying low and watching the tide come in." Little did he know that that would soon change as he would be, in roughly twenty years, forced to move into the city. There he would collect the excitement and energy of the people around him and dispel the dreamy, tranquil demeanor of the town.

"Well…" That had not lifted any of Charles bafflement in the least. Some hours later Charles left. Alfred never saw him again.

* * *

There were many things that held a special place in Alfred's heart. He liked the smell of grilled meat, forgiveness, and especially children.

Whenever he went out he would see children racing or playing imaginary games. Once he passed a group of them reenacting a part of a war. He advised them to revise their battle tactics. Another time he discovered a group of girls sitting under the tree and having a tea party while another girl in overalls played in the mud. Both were equally amused.

There was something in the innocence, the purity, the gentle spirits of children that Alfred found fascinating. He would never have any of his own, knowing that he could not raise them properly. The man who raised his child alone to the best of his abilities had earned his deepest and most moving respect.

Alfred enjoyed playing with children. They enjoyed having him around, since he could carry them on his shoulders and was like a great big kid himself. Most of the ladies found it admirable and the men found it silly.

The way children viewed the world was also to his great liking. They didn't understand most things, but what they did understand they had a clearer view than most adults.

Especially in the face of oppression and prejudice

Alfred had a great disliking to any form of hate from one man to the other. It brought waves of pain crashing down on him. Whenever someone sneered and spat out a mean name or remark, Alfred winced as though the words were daggers stabbing him.

But Alfred had no power over it. He could, with great degrees of power being focused, change the mind of one man. However some were more stubborn than others and refused to budge. And Alfred couldn't go to every person on the entire length of land and talk to them for hours on end. He would wring himself dry and still he couldn't change everybody. Alfred had only to watch and wait for times to heal the feeble minded.

* * *

"Mister Jones?"

"Yes?"

"I…" Tom stopped, clearing his throat. "Well, ma's awful sick. I was wonderin'…"

"Boy, I'm no doctor."

"I know, but they say you're a thousand years old. Surely if y'all can live that long you have some secret to it. You gotta stay healthy, I mean."

"If I didn't have to I wouldn't live this long."

"Yessir… sir?"

"Yeah?"

"Nothin'."

Tom walked away, his shoulders hunched over. Alfred felt his heart sink. Tom was not the first, and he was far from being the last to ask that question. And each time it only lowered Alfred's spirits more.

"Boy?" Alfred called, walking down his creaking steps.

Tom stopped, looking around with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

"May I see your mother, then?"

"Yessir!"

Tom took Alfred to see his mother. They lived in the less wealthy part of town. The house was dross and grievous. The roof sunk in and the windows were foggy, like sightless eyes looking out into the hot summer around them. Both Tom and Alfred had their pant legs rolled up to their knees. Dirt clung to their legs. Tom pushed open the protesting door and, hushing, led Alfred to the back room. Inside there were three children with glowing eyes and haggard faces watching him attentively.

"Told'ya I could get 'em!" Tom said in an excited whisper. They smiled, showing yellowed teeth. Alfred writhed inwardly with sorrow.

At the end of the thin hallway was an open door. Alfred walked in. In the center sat a thin bed with scratchy bedspreads. Within those bedspreads was the frailest woman Alfred had ever seen. Her curly brown hair was at her shoulders. Her chest rose and fell with chattering breaths.

"Ma'am?" Alfred said, walking over timidly but gaining confidence with each step.

She turned her head, her pale eyes locating him. "Hello," she croaked.

"Your boy Tom here said you were mighty sick and that I should come pay you a visit."

"So he did."

"He's a good boy."

"Sure is…" She closed her eyes. Her gaunt face and chapped lips radiated disease. When she opened her eyes she revealed jaundice. "Come closer, Alfred."

Her voice was like a gentle breeze. Alfred feared that if he breathed too hard she would crumble. He edged closer again, nonetheless.

"Did Tom tell you that I wanted him to fetch you?"

"Nome."

"Then now you know."

"'S'pose so, ma'am."

"Do you remember me?"

"Of course," a gentle smile came to pass across his lips. "You were that little girl with three pig tails that always came by my porch. You would tell me 'howdy' and I would say 'hey lil miss'. You would then reply with a statement about the weather and then you would leave. Sometimes you brought flowers. It was real nice of you."

"One day you stopped showing up…"

Tom closed the door a fragment and shooed his siblings. "Don't'cha want 'er to get better? So get and leave her be!"

Alfred nodded, feeling tears stand in his eyes. He had been at thousands of deathbeds before and he rarely shed a tear. It was beyond him why he did so now. "I was sent to the war."

"So was daddy," she breathed, "He never came back."

"I'm sorry."

She smiled, then.

"I want my boys and girls to have a good home. They aren't mine. I collected them off the street because they had nowhere to go. I don't want them going back."

"I'll find a way, ma'am."

"Alfred?"

"Yessum?"

"…Nothing."

Alfred bade her good bye and went away, trying to find a way to give the children a safe, warm home.

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia_

_my apologies if some of the dialect is incorrect. I tried my best._


End file.
